


Beautiful Descent

by kurgaya



Series: Hallucinogenic Gentleman [5]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Community: hc_bingo, F/F, Female Ichigo, Female Tōshirō, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s redemption that Tōshirō will find here, Ichigo knows. Redemption from her fall from grace and the way she has dashed her family’s carcase across the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Descent

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: The referenced character death is Momo Hinamori. It's completely off-screen, but this story deals with the aftermath the family faces.
> 
> Written for my ‘fall from grace’ prompt for the hurt/comfort bingo on livejournal.
> 
> I’m throwing quite a few of my Hitsugaya-family headcanons into this story. They will likely be further developed in subsequent stories.

“Oh, _Tōshirō_.”

The captain is a wreck. Although she hides it well, there are gory fractures athwart the white of her complexion, splintered with grief and gorging into the still of her weary countenance. The haori stained upon her shoulders is death’s cloak clinging to the remnants of her despair – it is weighing her down; tying her down. Her feet barely carried her this far to acceptance. All that’s left to hold her up is Ichigo’s support, but even that begins to crumble as the gentle elderly lady steps out of her house and reaches for Tōshirō’s stricken face with two delicate, momentous hands.

“Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” Kotose repeats, tracing her fingers into the taut skin of Tōshirō’s cheeks, as if attempting to rub away the enflamed streaks of tears before they slice open her silvery beauty. The captain shutters at the caress, burned by her grandmother’s anguish. Just a step away, Ichigo lingers, reluctant to remove her own touch from the little figure bowing under the burden of the past. She is mindful that Kotose will never let her granddaughter fall alone, but Ichigo fears this inescapable exchange will be too much for both of them. Though she does not know what relief she can give, the substitute will remain wherever she is most needed and pretend her daunted silence is enough.

Tōshirō’s lip quivers. “Granny,” she utters, the word a hesitation on her tongue. Her hands ache to grasp the tender embrace in return, but they are clutching the Fifth Division’s lieutenant badge so tightly that her skin is all but frozen in place. “Can we – come in?”

Kotose smiles as if she’s about to cry. She ushers them inside the tiny home with a heartbroken mumble of _always dear_ , yet Tōshirō shuffles in like a beaten puppy and edges around the room as if she expects something to strike her. Ichigo follows the grandmotherly plods across the floorboards without producing a single creak, but every step her partner makes triggers a snap or groan from the ancient house. Tōshirō’s haunted expression bleeds at the sounds.

Ichigo doesn’t know what to say to make things better, so she quietly accepts the offer of tea and settles on one of the mats in the centre of the room. After a tense moment, the elderly woman passes over a cup and a smile. Her hands delay on the nervous sweat of Ichigo’s tanned skin, as if the substitute is also in need of comfort from the overwhelming blemish in their relationship.

“I’ve been told I make the best tea,” Kotose explains, though her words hardly clarify a thing.

When Ichigo carefully takes a sip, she finds she has to agree. The taste is rich and heartening, akin to Yuzu’s favourite blend on a cold winter’s evening. Beside her, the cup placed in front of Tōshirō must contain some pungent poison for she looks just about ready to fall apart at the sight of it. Ichigo swallows the warmth of her drink and feels it chill the entirety of her body. Her lungs freeze up before she can assure Kotose that the drink is lovely.

“Thank you, Granny,” the captain whispers anyway, staring at the cup. It’s a broken sound. She clearly adores her grandmother to the point where she would thank her for anything. “Please – sit – enjoy your own. We –”

Nothing else is said. Whatever Tōshirō had wanted to add about them is lost to the shuffle of Kotose folding her yukata beneath her quaking knees and pouring herself some tea. Although Kotose doesn’t comment, the substitute shinigami, flickering like a waning candle, can tell that the woman is concerning her granddaughter’s behaviour with a close eye. Ichigo’s doing it too, and quite frankly Tōshirō is terrifying her. Grief she had expected – but the rotten self-sabotage that has encased the moonlight captain like a murky shawl of nightmares is tormenting to witness. Tōshirō is not to blame for what happened, but the way the silvery captain turns the lieutenant’s badge about in the shudder of her hands implies that the tremendous weight of responsibility is lugging her down. Ichigo has tried to assure her girlfriend that she’s not to blame (it makes her a hypocrite, she’s aware), but Tōshirō has yet to be receptive to the heartfelt resolve. Ichigo isn’t surprised – not really. She can turn Tōshirō’s disposition inside out and still distinguish how all the pieces fit together. That doesn’t mean it hurts any less to watch the magnificent shinigami crumple under the plaguing thoughts of _what she could have done_ and _what she should have done_ to change what happened.

No – it’s more of what she _shouldn’t have done_ that has brought them here, to Kotose; to condemnation.

(It’s redemption that Tōshirō will find here, Ichigo knows. Redemption from her fall from grace and the way she has dashed her family’s carcase across the ground).

Tōshirō does not know this.

The captain therefore takes it upon herself to wallow further into the deplorable hole that the oaths of her sister will be buried in by commencing the unavoidable conversation with a grave, “Momo’s dead.”

And because that’s not enough;

“I killed her.”

The _I’m sorry_ is added after such a substantial delay that Ichigo cringes into her teacup, willing the fragments of her soul to dissipate and shower the room with supernova shards of the radiant star that holds her together. They might light a smile back onto Tōshirō’s face, at any least, though if one of them is going to be beautiful in death, Ichigo rather imagines it’s not going to be her.

A nod is all that Kotose can appear to bring herself to reply with. Tōshirō’s shoulders hunch at the subtle movement, her body folding in on itself in shame. Her haori clings to her figure in all the wrong places, as if it doesn’t fit her anymore. She looks wasted and thin beneath the layers of her accountabilities, but if she goes to take them off Ichigo will do everything in her power to stop her. Sitting by silently with the wretched knowledge that there is little she can do to ease Tōshirō and Kotose’s sorrow is one thing, but watching her brilliant lover destroy herself is another. There is a line that mustn’t be crossed, and if Tōshirō is too consumed by her remorse to see it, then Ichigo is going to draw it for her.

“Drink your tea, dear,” says Kotose. “You’d hate for it to grow cold.”

Stark confusion passes across the hollow of Tōshirō’s face at the idea that she could possibly be capable of holding a mug while her hands are full with her last piece of her sister’s legacy. Opposite, her grandmother lifts her own drink to her lips and sips it quietly, the sapphire fire of her eyes encouraging Tōshirō to do the same. There is an entire conversation in the pause before the captain sets down the badge, and though Ichigo cannot hear it, she can feel the weight of it in the silence. The lieutenant’s insignia clicks against the floorboards like stone meeting stone, but when Tōshirō drags her touch away, the emblem remains unblemished, as if the house has accepted a long-lost part of it home.

Ichigo feels so out of place it’s not even funny. She tries to hide her awkwardness by ducking her head and pretending that she doesn’t exist. She shouldn’t have intruded on this reunion. Even though Tōshirō had invited her along ( _for moral support_ , the empty teal of her beautiful eyes had pleaded; silently, because she would never ask for such a thing with the sound of her breath), Ichigo should have said considered all of the consequences of her decision before agreeing. At first, it had seemed like an easy choice. If Tōshirō needed her, then Ichigo would go. But now, privy to a side of her lover she shouldn’t be seeing – a slumped, wrecked shell of her usual merited prosperity under the undefined allegation of her grandmother – the substitute feels sick.

(Maybe it’s the tea. Maybe there is poison in it).

She shouldn’t be sitting here. She doesn’t want to be sitting here.

 _Momo_ should be sitting here and this is such a horrible thought that both Tōshirō and Kotose turn to her when four shades of her brave façade drain out of her face and puddle onto the floor.

“Sorry,” Ichigo squeaks, but her limbs are lead and she can’t get up to retreat beyond the stares of their alarm. Her body flails in place – tea slops over her lap. The trace of Tōshirō’s hand against her arm stings more than the boiling liquid scorching through her hakama. Kotose passes over a cloth from _absolutely nowhere_ to salvage the uniform. Ichigo holds her breath as Tōshirō dabs up the spillage, yet she cannot place why. Perhaps it is the abrupt rupture to the air between them. Or maybe it is shame of her own, at her uselessness and her aptitude at throwing herself into paths of people she shouldn’t be able to trek along and tumbling them all into chaos.

“It’s alright,” Tōshirō assures, folding the towel back up once she’s finished. She puts it to the side and reclaims her tea, her attention trailing over the substitute’s mortified demeanour. She’s sitting a fraction closer to her partner now – their shoulders are warm against each other. “Thank you.”

Why her girlfriend is muttering gratitude, Ichigo has no idea. “No problem,” she blurts anyway, and Kotose’s laughter is so unexpected that the shinigami couple collide in their haste to recollect their bearings and pinpoint exactly where the conversation had diverted south of desolate.

“Ichigo,” Kotose says, murmuring the name like a prayer. The substitute immediately straightens at the address, an instinctive desire to appease her lover’s family kicking her brain back into gear. “ _Thank you_.”

The lieutenant’s badge chinks when Tōshirō’s body brushes past it, but instead of picking up the embodiment of the vile guilt dragging her through the day like Ichigo anticipates, the captain reaches the other way and entwines their fingers together. Their hands complement in the gap between their thighs. Ichigo allows the motion, refraining from commenting about how it means she cannot escape the room to wallow in her own stupidity now.

(Probably Tōshirō’s intention all along).

She cools the heat of her blush into the wintry flurry of Tōshirō’s hair. It would be improper to exhibit too much affection in front of Kotose, and yet the elderly lady simply smiles at their conduct. A melancholy delight shines upon her face, illumining the tears that are collected like diamonds in the azure of her eyes. She looks young and old at the same time; warmed by her granddaughter’s love and chilled by the sadness of this gathering. Momo’s absence is heavy upon them – the lieutenant’s badge cannot sustain the memories of the laughter and happiness that amass about the home like beads of light in the dust. But the dust will eventually clear and the fortification of the house will be exposed, strengthened by the suffering it has endured. Momo’s animated being will not return to support the family, but the impression of her life will remain.

In Kotose’s smile, reminiscence of the bubbly girl lives through.

Tōshirō tucks herself into Ichigo’s side and doesn’t make a sound. Her pain is loud in the tremor of her shoulders and the twist of the blizzard inside her, howling a storm to the heavens. There’s an apology in the humble of her body. Her fingers are frozen in a remorseful clasp.

Ichigo kisses the top of her head. She doesn’t know what to say, but she hopes her affection will express everything for her. What it feels to lose a loved one is an experience she will never forget. It is not quite correct, she knows, to compare Masaki and Momo; two vastly different women of two worlds as diverse as the sea and sky, but both had lived and died for their family. Masaki – a quincy, a wife, a mother. Momo – a shinigami, a sister, a granddaughter.

A friend.

A piece of a heart that will never be filled again.

Ichigo could not replace her mother, and she cannot replace the child that Kotose has lost. Yet nobody is asking her to, not even in the invitation to witness the family’s descent into grief. Her place in the heart of the home is not to paint over the void with audacious orange paint and pretend she’s a distraction to the cracks underneath. The fissures are going to be there anyway, but Ichigo thinks she might be able to prevent just one or two more from forming in the first place.

“Momo was so eager to have a little sister when I took you in,” Kotose reflects as she busies herself with setting the kettle back onto boil. “ _Oh_ , she would spend her whole day fussing over you, getting anything you wanted and ensuring you were never far from sight. You’d think I’d brought home a puppy, not a child.”

She creates a jubilant scene with her words, but there’s something graver than joy in the tone of the memory. Kotose shuffles about as if the demands of the teapot are the only things protecting her from the cruelty of what she is recalling from all those years ago.

“I don’t remember,” Tōshirō mutters, which only further amplifies Ichigo’s unexpected unease with the conversation. She hasn’t delved deep into her girlfriend’s upbringing before – beyond snippets of a childhood in the Academy and her progression to command in the Tenth Division, Ichigo knows little.

Kotose sighs at the declaration, but all Ichigo can feel from the touch of her wrinkled hands as she accepts another cup of tea is relief. (Why?) “No, I imagine not, dear. She adored you from the moment she laid eyes on you – as did I. Even if the thought had ever crossed my mind, I knew then that I wouldn’t have been able to send you away. I think you were just as imperative to us as we were to you. You were so young, but so full of _fire_. There was never a dull moment after you joined us.”

The captain shakes her head at these words, augmenting her grandmother’s recollection. “I got into so much trouble.”

“Yes, you did – _oh you did_.”

“I was a brat.”

Kotose laughs at the sheer candour of the statement. Ichigo smirks around the rim of her cup, trying to imagine her girlfriend as a snot-nosed kid raging the streets of Junrinan.

“Troubling, oh definitely,” Kotose agrees with a fond smile. “We had our hands full with your mishaps. You couldn’t go a single day without causing some sort of ruckus.” When she passes Tōshirō her drink, she reaches up and brushes a few stray strands of her silvery fringe from her eyes.

The captain flutters at the attention and mumbles, “I was broken, Granny.”

“You were _perfect_.”

Tōshirō recoils violently enough to startle Ichigo into emitting a sharp noise of shock. Their tea is rescued before it can be wasted this time, but without its troublesome slosh across the floor, there is nothing to distract Kotose and the captain from the implications of their exchange. Kotose frowns at her granddaughter’s behaviour and gives a little sigh – it doesn’t sound as weary as one belonging to a woman who hadn’t expected such a self-disgusted temperament from her company, and Ichigo wonders what that says about their relationship.

There is undeniably more to the conversation than what Ichigo can see upon the surface. Her knack for reading people can only assist her to a point, however, and with her lover’s nature being the one in question, picking at all the wrong pieces is the last thing she wants to do. It is therefore fortunate – perhaps, from a cynical point of view – that Kotose also thrives in understanding the complexity of Tōshirō’s persona and says;

“Momo loved you.”

“I know,” says the wintry shinigami, her words chilled to the bone.

“No,” the elder murmurs, and there are definitely tears in her eyes now, trickling down the lines of age in her skin like liquid mercury. “You don’t.”

Tōshirō’s responding scowl is harsh and her words are bitter with the temper and malice of the ice-age monster inside of her soul. “What does it matter now?” she snaps back, the air around her shivering. “She’s dead. There’s nothing left of her to think anything of me. You don’t know what it was like, Granny – you don’t know what it was like to _see her_ –”

She tries to wrench herself away from Ichigo – to do what, the substitute doesn’t know, but unwilling to let the fraying captain follow through with the roar of her emotions, she clings on tightly and unravels the blaze of her reiatsu out into the house. The coil inside of her is warm and tender as it reaches outwards to quell the frozen tempest before it can form, but for a terrible moment as the room flashes with her fire, Ichigo is certain in the knowledge that she has just committed some unforgiveable act. The heave of Tōshirō’s body mutates into something wild and frightened so abruptly at the tiny gasp from her grandmother that Ichigo fears for the enduring control of the room in the split second it takes the captain to whirl to her feet. Above her, the ceiling cracks and freezes. The boiling teapot clatters across the floorboards with a thunderous eruption of fire and water. Ichigo startles backwards to avoid the hiss of the spray, but Kotose remains firm as her granddaughter’s arctic reiatsu struggles against the frantic warmth of the substitute’s fire enveloping the room.

Though she cannot pinpoint the instant where Tōshirō’s distinguishing levelheadedness was consumed by the uninhibited panic that lurched up onto her feet, Ichigo knows that identifying such a moment is a triviality in comparison to the agony she can feel radiating off of her girlfriend in waves and rolls of icy mist. She reaches out with an empathetic resolve and moulds the blaze of her reiatsu around Tōshirō’s rigid figure. The captain shudders at the sensation, almost in alarm, and if Ichigo’s heart doesn’t break right then and there than there was never any compassion in her. But then Tōshirō wanes and gravitates towards the touch, accepting it. Ichigo coaxes her back down to the level of rationality that Kotose is keeping composed on the apartment’s mats – the elderly lady is as quiet and serene as Tōshirō usually is, and if Ichigo hadn’t been in the process of taming the terror of her partner, she would smile at the similarity between them.

“Don’t,” Tōshirō breathes; pants. “Don’t do that again – ever – don’t –”

Ichigo is frightened. “Alright,” she promises, though she is clueless as to what her oath is asking of her. “Alright, I won’t, I’m sorry.”

She _is_ sorry. Tōshirō is hurting and Ichigo only seems to be making it worse. All she had wanted to do with her reiatsu was appease the agony in the atmosphere – that’s what it usually does, she argues – but Tōshirō’s sheer horror had been a reaction she had never expected.

It’s one she never wants to cause again.

“I’m sorry,” the captain is blubbering – there’s no other word for the sounds that tumble out of her lips. There’s nothing coherent about her anymore. Her frozen fortifications are melted around her now; she’s vulnerable in a way that Ichigo has never seen before. Even the shadowy relics of Aizen’s plot and the cruel betrayal the Gotei Thirteen had suffered hadn’t caused Tōshirō to fall apart to this degree. Then, she had been wounded – her trust broken, her confidence in her judgement fractured – but she had stayed strong and led her division to victory. Now, with one simple, grotesque death sitting on her shoulders, Tōshirō is losing control of herself.

 _And that’s okay_ , Ichigo thinks, whispering the words into the snowy wisp of the captain’s hair. _It’s okay and you don’t have to be sorry. You have nothing to apologise for_.

Tōshirō doesn’t cry.

(Ichigo isn’t sure that she will).

Across the room, Kotose wipes up the last of her tears before shuffling towards them. The kettle is still trying to right itself and the towel from earlier is insufficient in mopping up the mess, but she carries the ends of her yukata past them and kneels on Tōshirō’s other side. Ichigo slides her hand down her girlfriend’s arm to give the grandmother a place to provide her own support, and Kotose smiles gratefully at the ginger. They’re both anxious; uncertain on how best to approach Tōshirō’s shattering defences. Ichigo can help with grief, but there’s something more sinister to Tōshirō’s distress than Momo’s shocking passing. The substitute shinigami is assured that Kotose has more experience with this side of the young captain than she, but she doesn’t know if it will be enough.

She can only have faith that they will be.

“I’m glad you became a shinigami,” Kotose begins, her sincerity a murmur into the soundless aftermath. One shoulder twitches beneath the pristine haori in reply – the grandmother quickly corrects herself, patting away the tension; “Not for that reason, sweetheart, but because it makes you happy. I know things haven’t been easy for you – even though you never tell me about it – but I’m your grandmother and I notice these things.” She brushes her fingertips along Tōshirō’s jaw. “I know when you’re hurting, and I know why. And I think I’ve always known that I would lose you both to the Seireitei, so I cannot say that hearing about Momo’s passing is a surprise. Of course, I would have liked to outlive you both, but when my two darling grandchildren are amongst the most successful of the Soul Society, I think about little old me and know that even though your lives may be cut short before mine, you’ll definitely be spending them being everything you deserve to be.

“You’re my star, Tōshirō. My little winter lion. And though you may not currently be feeling the same, I for one am glad that you here with me now – alive, and whole, and healthy. I worry about you every day, even though I know how strong you are. You’ve always been a fighter – since the day I found you. You probably wouldn’t have survived if you’d been any less determined. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, but you will get through this, I know you will. I’ll always be here for you, no matter what you do or how long you stay away, and don’t forget you’ve got your friends, and that lovely lieutenant of yours, and a doting, generous girlfriend I see, whom I think you’re scaring if I may be so forward.”

Ichigo echoes Kotose’s laugh. Squished between them and most definitely having a problem with that, Tōshirō clicks her tongue and mutters something about a ‘coward,’ though it has to be noted that her hand finds Ichigo’s again in the folds of their clothes. It’s a promising sign, and one that the substitute eagerly latches onto, her clammy skin burning against the ice. She’s still not any closer to discovering the meaning behind all the hints and implications that are passing between Kotose and Tōshirō, but they do not matter for now. Tōshirō will share the depths of her past when she wants to, and not a moment before.

It’s in her nature, after all.

(Sometimes it’s troubling having such a refined lover).

(And other times it’s really, _really_ not).

“I still killed her, Granny,” are the words that break the almost peaceful hush. Unlike before, where she spat them as wretched accusations at herself, now they’re whispered with a heavy tone of regret. “I still caused her to die.”

Kotose looks like she doesn’t believe this for a second. Although Tōshirō cannot see her expression to discern this, the captain is no doubt acutely aware of the caress of her grandmother’s touch as it utters what her face is unable to convey. The icy shinigami leans into the embrace and allows herself a moment to appreciate the boundless love it brings.

“I don’t think that’s true,” says Kotose.

The silvery head drops against the grandmother’s shoulder with a defeated sigh. Ichigo feels her lover pull away from her, but she doesn’t mind because Tōshirō’s voice lifts from the desolating misery that ensnarls it. “I know.”

“Yes,” Kotose says this time, laughing softly. “You do.”

She kisses the top of her granddaughter’s head. The hoarfrost bespattered across the ceiling starts to melt, the dewdrops clear and gentle in their descent. The droplets fizzle away before they can chill Kotose, but they trickle onto Ichigo’s head, gliding down the irregular strands of her auburn mane. One drips along the exposure of Tōshirō’s neck and slips under her uniform, pooling over her heart.

The air gradually warms.

One of the glass wind bells that hang upon the door rings in the breeze outside. The song is short and buoyant at first, like the seagull bells of Tobiume, but then continues to cry with an echoing note as a second bell begins to sway. The chime is melancholy, but they resound together in a simple harmony. Ichigo wonders if there’s a song for Kotose as well, and then briefly if Zangetsu’s tune will ever join the family of chimes ornamenting the entrance doorway.

It’s a silly little thought, but it makes her smile.

Kotose’s laughter complements the sound of the bells. Ichigo flutters in confusion when the grandmother reaches out and fondly pinches one of her cheeks. Between them, Tōshirō straightens up and turns to regard her girlfriend’s dazed smile with a typical glower of exasperation, but the softness around the bright of her eyes reveals her true consideration of the scene. Ichigo is once again absolutely certain that Tōshirō and her grandmother are telepathic and that she’s missed another entire section of the conversation when Kotose says;

“You’re very lovely dear, but I’m not quite ready to give my little girl away. Allow my poor heart time to adjust would you?”

It’s the hum at the end that makes Ichigo flounder. “Um,” is just about all the elegance she can muster in reply, because they can’t seriously be talking about marriage – can they?

“Granny, she’s a Shiba,” Tōshirō interrupts, as if that explains everything.

It certainly explains _something_ _or other_ (what, Ichigo has no idea, and that frightens her just a little bit) when Kotose’s expression widens in surprise. Her eyes lighten to such a startling blue that the frazzled substitute worries the elder is about to kneel over in shock with the way she brings a hand up to cover the smirk of her mouth.

“ _Is she_ ,” Kotose utters, unconditionally charmed. “My, my, dear, what are we going to do with you?”

Ichigo has a feeling it’s not just Tōshirō she’s talking to. The captain clearly picks up on this as well, for she rolls her eyes at Ichigo’s stunned silence and lays a palm atop Kotose’s knee, regarding her with an eloquent expression.

“Now isn’t the time, Granny,” she says with a note of amusement.

 _For what_ , Ichigo yearns to ask, but she holds her tongue as the two Hitsugayas share a moment of cheerful laughter, one of many that will hopefully follow in the stricken aftermath of Momo’s death.

It’s what Momo would have wanted, she thinks.

The bells outside agree.


End file.
